


dandelions in her hair

by bluemccns



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, but i love one bastard, i haven’t actually finished origins yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-23 18:29:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18707560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemccns/pseuds/bluemccns
Summary: zevran always knows just what to say.





	dandelions in her hair

__

The sun is low in the sky, painting the treeline in shades of purple, pink, and orange that peek through the bare branches. Murmured conversation and the distant crackle of the fire turn the forest clearing into camp, as it has so many times before. From where Kethryllia sits a short distance away, she can hear the rustle of tent flaps and the familiar metallic clang of Alistair taking off his armor for the evening.

        And yet she still fails to hear Zevran’s approaching footfalls.

        “Good evening,” he says, and it’s enough to send her scrambling to her feet defensively.

        She thinks she must look ridiculous, entirely unarmed with wild dark brown hair still damp from her bath in a nearby stream, equipped with nothing but the fist she has reared back for a punch.

        “Maker’s _balls_ , Zevran!” She huffs, relaxing her stance and plopping back into the grass indignantly. “One of these days, I’m going to break your fucking nose.”

        “Ah, but I think you like my face too much to do so.”

        She needn’t look to know he’s smirking, but she does it anyway. It’s infuriating in the best way, which also makes it the _worst_  way, because she knows she’s blushing and she hates it.

        “What did you want, anyway?”

        “Is it not enough to simply wish to talk to my Warden?”

        Her shoulders sag with a sigh. “Is anything really ever simple with you?”

        He takes her retort as a victory, sitting beside her in the grass. “What are you thinking about?”

        At first, she doesn’t really know what to say. In truth, she isn’t sure there’s anything she doesn’t think about nowadays. There is, however, something that takes prominence over the other worries that plague her thoughts.

        “The alienage.” The words are hard to say, as if her speaking them aloud will somehow make things worse. “There’s…”

        Whatever playfulness Zevran had been carrying in his expression disappears.

        “Do you remember when you were telling me about Antiva?” she asks, and he nods. “You asked me if I came from some sort of glittering gem like your homeland, and I told you I didn’t.”

        “Yes, I remember.”

She tucks her knees to her chest. “I come from Denerim, in a secluded part of the city called the alienage. It’s exclusive to elves, and every so often, human bastards come in and make our lives hell. They harass us, they take us, they kill us if we don’t cooperate. Did I ever tell you why I became a Warden?”

He shakes his head. No witty remark follows as he stares at her, almost in confusion, as if he isn’t sure how to react. He’s never seen her look so small.

“I was going to get married: completely against my will, if I might add. Marriages in the alienage are arranged. On the day of my wedding, the arl’s son arrived in the alienage and took me and a handful of other elven women. I fought to free them, and killed him and all his pathetic lackeys in the process. I wasn’t lying when I told you I know what the satisfaction of a kill feels like.”

“I never doubted it.” She’s never seen him look at her with such softness, and it nearly makes her nauseous.

“I’m not something to be pitied. I hate being seen that way almost as much as I hate being seen as some sort of prize to be won.” Her gaze is fixed on the ground, where she starts absentmindedly plucking dandelions from the grass for something to do, for a way to avoid the brown eyes she feels staring through her.

“It was my mother that taught me to fight, and I learned because I had to, because if I didn’t, I’d end up some human’s plaything, or dead. I feel like there’s no way to win; like I must choose between being the rabbit or the wolf, between being seen as weak and helpless or something terrifying.”

“If I may…” Zevran reaches over and takes one of the dandelions where she clutches a small bunch. “I told you before, you are something beautiful, and something strong.”

        When he shifts to sit behind her and begins weaving her not-quite-air-dried hair into a braid, she tenses, but makes no move to stop him.

        “You know what I see when I look at you?” he asks, and waits for no answer. “I see something dangerous, but breathtaking. Surely you have noticed that it is always the flowers with the brightest colors that pack the deadliest poison.”

        He works the dandelion into the plait, then snatches another from her hands to do the same. “Perhaps your home is not a glimmering gem to you, because you fail to notice that you are what caused it to shine, my Warden. There is no doubt in my mind that you were the best thing about that place.”

        Another flower is added to the braid before it is tied off, and she turns to face him. One of his hands rests to cup the side of her face, a calloused thumb brushing ever so lightly over a flushed pink cheek. The fingers of his other hand toy with the end of the long braid full of dandelions that rests over her shoulder.

        “You are the best thing about _every_ place, Kethryllia, anywhere we go.”

        Her heart is hammering as she hangs suspended in whatever gravitational pull keeps her prisoner here, and the reckless part of her mind that often takes over in battle fights for control over the logic that urges her to get her head on straight. Everything about Zevran is inviting, and she leans closer against her better judgement. It is when an arm wraps around her waist that she gasps as if woken from a dream and clumsily gets to her feet.

        “Did I say something wrong?” he asks.

        “No, no, I just--” she dusts herself off, then crosses her arms. “Andraste’s  _tits_. You say everything _right_ , and that’s the problem.”

        “I don’t see how that’s a problem.” And the infuriating smirk is back.

        “Yeah? Well, I’m going to bed,” she says and begins to march off, then turns to shoot him a glare. “And that is _not_ an invitation.”

        “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

        “Yes, you would.”

        “Yes, I would. I do, actually, quite frequently.”

        She turns on her heel and makes a beeline for her tent. The next morning, she awakes with dandelions in her hair.


End file.
